


Something, Not Just...Something

by bigblueboxat221b, OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cheating, Developing Relationship, Karma - Freeform, Loving Mycroft, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Protective Mycroft, Romance, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24708028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: From a twitter prompt:Greg attends a charity event with his boyfriend, who abandons him quickly after they arrive. He's at a loss until he sees Mycroft's familiar face. Things get awkward when Mycroft discloses that Greg's date is cheating on him. With Mycroft's boyfriend.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 130
Kudos: 555
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paia_Loves_Pie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/gifts).



> Huge thanks to Paia, whose prompts are basically life. You're wonderful and deserve all the tea in the world.

Greg paused, the two glasses of champagne already showing signs of condensation in the warm room. A sea of bodies clad in the required black tie made it difficult to immediately find his boyfriend. A wave of self-consciousness rolled through him as he watched people so clearly comfortable here. Richard fit into this world far better than he did. He wore his bespoke suit easily, as though it was a part of him, whereas Greg was incredibly aware of himself in his own black tie number. The suit was beautifully cut, of course; Richard’s tailor was clever and experienced. The price tag had reflected both of those traits, and Greg remembered when he winced at the bill Richard had rolled his eyes.

“You need to take more pride in your appearance, Greg,” he’d said, flicking at some imaginary speck on the collar. “You’re quite handsome when you make the effort.”

At the time Greg wasn’t entirely sure why those words made him a little uncomfortable, but later his brain made the connection. They’d been lying in Richard’s bed, a rare night on which they’d been home early enough to eat together before falling into bed. As he felt Richard’s hand brush hair back from his face, Greg wondered what would happen if they had too many evenings like this.

As it was, they’d barely had enough to talk about to get them through a drink before dinner and the meal itself. Avoiding the awkwardness of silence was easy enough. By now Greg was well versed enough to know what to ask, what would trigger Richard essentially monologuing about some small slight he’d endured during the day, or how he was always being passed over for the best accounts at the investment company where he worked. According to him there was nobody even close to his talent, and Greg was now familiar enough with the rant to make the right noises without listening properly.

It was comfortable, he told himself, and familiar. This was what it was like, knowing someone so well. He had learned not to expect casual touches, the moments of care and tenderness you might expect from a partner. They’d just skipped over that part, straight into the easy but almost platonic life of a long-term couple.

It was fine.

And then they fell into bed, where everything was always good, always easy. Nothing about that was on autopilot, and Greg used these moments to reassure himself. Everyone’s relationship was like this. Easier parts and…more difficult parts. He pushed away the things he missed, the intimacies he remembered from previous relationships that were so clearly absent, and concentrated on the moment.

Richard’s fingers were still carding through his hair and when he shifted, bringing his mouth closer to Greg’s ear, a burst of surprised affection shot through Greg. He tried to hold back the smile that threatened to burst through. Sweet nothings weren’t really Richard’s style, but this was a nice change.

“You should get a haircut before the ball on Saturday,” Richard murmured. “I’d like to introduce you to Stevenson, and this long hair is hardly an appropriate look.”

It might have been a second or longer that Greg’s muscle froze; either way, the affection had fizzled away before he found his voice.

“I’ve booked one for tomorrow,” he said, the lie like acid on his tongue. Carefully, he eased away. “I should have a shower.”

In the shower, the earlier words had come back to him and he realised what it was that had sat awkwardly with him.

_“You’re quite handsome when you make the effort.”_

It had sounded like a compliment, but it wasn’t. Not really. And it wasn’t the first time, his brain reminded him, sending out half a dozen other examples to support its assertion. Uncomfortable, Greg rinsed off the last of the soap, turning off the taps before the water ran cold. He pushed his mind away from it as he dried himself. Analysing his relationship with Richard wasn’t something he did. The few times there had been a glimpse he’d ignored it. Ignored the truth for a little longer.

+++

On Saturday, Greg ran out during his non-existent lunch break to get a haircut. It wasn’t his usual place, and the barber left it a little longer than he would have liked. He knew Richard would notice, but he didn’t have time to get it fixed. It was bad enough he was leaving work at five o’clock tonight when they really needed to crack on with the new cases sitting on his desk. The haircut would have to do, and he just had to hope they wouldn’t have a row over it. Well, they never really did, not a proper fight, where you aired all your grievances. That would be too close to addressing their issues, even if it was at volume. Usually, Richard got all huffy and went back to the office for a few hours and Greg put the football on.

It wasn’t ideal, but nobody’s relationship was, right?

Now standing on the mezzanine looking out over the crowd, Greg wondered why he was even bothering. Richard hadn’t introduced him to Stevenson even though they’d spotted him as soon as they arrived; instead he’d guided them in the other direction, away from his boss.

“He looks busy,” Richard said, one hand in the small of Greg’s back. “Let’s see who else is here. Look, there’s Jack.”

Another of Richard’s colleagues, though a little junior to him. Jack greeted Richard enthusiastically, though he barely spared a glance for Greg. Richard didn’t seem to notice. He and Jack quickly settled into what sounded like a well-worn exchange.

“I mean, if you haven’t bothered with a degree, why shouldn’t you work harder than us?” Jack said, raising his glass to his mouth. “That’s the point, right? You go to university so you don’t have to bust your arse.”

Richard roared with laughter, clapping the man on the back. He glanced over at Greg, inviting him to join the mirth, but Greg just gave him a brief smile. Was he seriously laughing at the expense of blue collar workers?

_Does he remember I never went to university?_

“Some people with degrees work pretty hard,” Greg said, keeping his tone light but unable to let the slight go. “Doctors in an ER, for one. And paramedics, a bunch of the younger coppers coming through…”

“If you’re smart enough to be a doctor but dumb enough to work for the NHS,” Jack pronounced the acronym as though it was a dirty word, “you deserve the shitty conditions. And I mean, what’s the point of a degree if you’re going to end up chasing purse snatchers and pervs anyway?”

A small part of Greg hoped Richard would defend him, or the job he did at least, but mainly he was unsurprised when instead he laughed at Jack’s joke. He didn’t even bother looking at Greg this time.

Stung, Greg murmured something about getting drinks, needing to get away from the unbearable snobbery. He worked an honest job, and hard at it. Who cared if he had a degree? And he didn’t know a single copper who was in it for the money, or the glory or whatever. Greg knew Richard looked down on people in the service industry – he was quite condescending to waiters – but he’d never realised it extended to emergency services, too. And Richard hadn’t bothered defending him, or even reminding Jack he was a copper. Assuming he’d remembered at all.

Suddenly Greg wanted nothing more than to get out of here. Tempting though it was to just head home, the idea of a fight to cap off his night was hardly appealing. He should wait it out, talk to Richard when they got home. Well, back to Richard’s place.

_At least I still have my own flat._

Jesus, was he already thinking of breaking it off? The thought itself wasn’t as upsetting as it should be, though the idea of being alone again tugged at his heart.

_No point staying together just to avoid being alone._

_Is there?_

“Good evening, Detective Inspector.”

The voice broke into Greg’s reverie and he turned, startled to have been recognised where he felt so very out of place.

“Mycroft, hi,” Greg blurted when he recognised the man addressing him. It took him a second to get himself right for a conversation. “What’re you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same question,” Mycroft replied. He looked poised as usual, his suit impeccable, one eyebrow raised in query.

“Can’t find my date,” Greg said. “This seemed to have the best view.” He waved one hand over the crowd below.

“Then we are here for the same reason,” Mycroft said calmly.

“Wait, you’re here with a date?” Greg asked, his own eyebrows rising in surprise.

“I am,” Mycroft replied. “He is far more involved with this charity than am I, however it is an opportunity to speak with certain people.” He smiled slightly. “It is a surprise to you I can see, but…” he hesitated, and Greg wondered what the end of the sentence was meant to be. “I assume you are still searching the crowd?”

“I am,” Greg said. “Hard to tell anyone apart when we’re all in these penguin suits.”

“True,” Mycroft said. He looked Greg up and down. “Not your usual tailor?”

Greg snorted at the idea of him having a ‘usual tailor’. “No,” he said. “Richard suggested a new suit might be a good idea.”

“It is a flattering cut,” Mycroft said. Greg understood he meant, ‘better than what you usually wear,’ but the way he phrased it as a compliment was far kinder than…well. No point making comparisons.

_Don’t go there. It was never an option._

“Thanks,” Greg said. “Not sure it’s really in my budget for everyday suits, but this one is nice.”

“I have seen some of the scenes you attend,” Mycroft said. “A bespoke suit is hardly a good match for a job in which you might be expected to crouch in a rancid alleyway at three o’clock in the morning.”

“True,” Greg replied, grinning. “Might have to stick with my M&S for that kind of thing.”

Mycroft winced. “Surely there is some middle ground,” he murmured, though his tone was mild.

“Probably,” Greg said, smiling. It was rare to see Mycroft’s sense of humour, and it often took him by surprise. He didn’t know why he added, “I guess I’m just used to buying cheaper stuff.” Greg bit down on his inner cheek to stop himself adding more. Mycroft didn’t want to hear about his working class childhood.

To his surprise, there was an awkward silence as Mycroft clearly expected him to go on, polite interest in his expression. Greg couldn’t tell if disappointment flashed across his face when he realised there was no more. Surely he didn’t want Greg to bang on about suits?

_Who would be interested in that?_

“Your drinks appear to be growing warm,” Mycroft murmured finally. “Perhaps I might help you find your date.”

“Sure,” Greg said, turning to look over the room again. “Um, he’s fairly dark skinned, short hair, black tie. A white rose in his buttonhole.”

They both scanned the room. Before Greg could find anything he felt Mycroft stiffen beside him. When he glanced over, Mycroft’s expression was closed, and Greg wondered why, though not for long.

“Taller than both of us,” Mycroft murmured, “and if you don’t mind me saying so, a rather smug expression?”

Greg stared at him. “Yeah,” he said. A prickle of something danced across the back of his neck.

“Perhaps we might repair to a more private corner,” Mycroft suggested tightly, placing a hand on Greg’s shoulder to turn him from the landing.

“What?” Greg said with a frown. He followed Mycroft to an alcove. “What, Mycroft?”

“I’m sorry to inform you,” Mycroft said, taking both the champagne flutes, “that I believe I have seen your date.”

“You have?” Greg said. “That doesn’t sound good.” He frowned. “Why doesn’t that sound good?”

“In the search for your date,” Mycroft said, “I found mine. He was talking to someone with whom he was clearly on intimate terms.”

“How the hell could you tell that from here?” Greg asked. He wasn’t following this conversation at all, but stopping Mycroft seemed too difficult. If he was patient enough Mycroft would get to the point.

“I am skilled in reading body language,” Mycroft replied. “Some people make little effort to conceal themselves.” He paused uncomfortably. “Neither of this pair made such an effort. It is clear they are physically comfortable with each other.”

“He’s cheating on you?” Greg asked in astonishment. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Not a close connection,” he murmured. “Certainly not as close as to the man with whom I saw him.”

Greg nodded. “And how is that…” he trailed off, realising why Mycroft was telling him this. “Shit.” He peered at Mycroft, the empathy in his grey eyes answering Greg’s unspoken question. “It was Richard. Are you sure?”

“Given your description, as sure as is possible to be,” Mycroft said quietly. “Might I assume your connection to your date is closer than mine?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “It was.” A flicker of an eyebrow betrayed Mycroft’s surprise and Greg knew he’d caught the past tense.

_Fuck._

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said after a beat.

“Not your fault,” Greg said. He was feeling more and more foolish by the second. Christ, of all the people for him to be having this conversation with… “Where did you see them?”

“If it’s not overstepping, might I counsel against a confrontation?” Mycroft said without answering the question. “Such a scene might cause a level of embarrassment.”

“Not to me,” Greg said grimly. This wasn’t his world; he could walk out of here with his head held high and no regrets even if he and Richard came to blows.

“Salt the earth,” Mycroft said, and there was no censure in his tone, only a question. _Are you sure?_

“Yeah,” Greg replied. His face was growing hot, the foolishness morphing into shame and anger. “Not sure I care too much about that right now.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied. He smoothly drained one champagne flute, leaving it on the low table at his waist and offering the other to Greg. “Shall we?”

Greg looked at him in surprise. Was he coming to witness this? _What the hell._ It took a second but a rush of certainty hardened in him, and he echoed Mycroft, his empty flute landing on the same table.

“Which way?” he said.

“The hall towards the library,” Mycroft said, pointing. “Assuming they are still there.”

Greg nodded, heading down the stairs, heart pounding. Appealing though it was to barge his way through the throngs of people, he tempered his impatience, working slowly in between the talking pairs and groups. From the glimpses he could see of the hall Mycroft had mentioned, the men had gone. Probably towards the library, Greg reasoned. Assuming Mycroft had read things correctly, and Greg had no reason to believe he was mistaken, they already knew each other. If that was the case they were more likely to be looking for privacy than making small talk.

The library door was closed, and the handle was cold against his palm. Greg didn’t hesitate in opening it, striding grimly in, bracing for what he might see.

It was hardly hide and seek; the couple against the far bookshelf was clearly visible, even with only corner lamps to illuminate the room. The sound of the door slamming against the wall broke their embrace. As Greg watched one man stood up, wiping at his mouth while the other bent to fasten the front of his trousers. Neither appeared to be in too much of a hurry.

Greg stared, meeting Richard’s unrepentant gaze. The anger that had boiled in his veins the whole way down here was supposed to fire his words, but Greg couldn’t find a single one he could be bothered saying. Instead, he dug one hand into his pocket, holding Richard’s gaze as he found his keys. A quick glance down, his fingers surprisingly steady as he separated Richard’s key from the collection. The teeth bit into his fingers as he raised his eyes again.

Richard was straightening his tie, face calm, almost bored.

_He should be upset._

Greg swallowed.

_I should be upset._

Greg pressed his lips together. There was nothing to say, and the embarrassment that had fuelled him was gone. Carefully, he took a few steps forward, placing the key in a pool of light on the nearest side table. It clicked as it hit the lacquer. The sound was loud against the background of the party.

Without looking back, he turned away. His heart was pounding in his ears as he walked out. He should be feeling more upset. Why wasn’t he more upset?

“Detective Inspector.”

Mycroft’s voice was behind him. Jesus, had he been there too? Greg had forgotten Mycroft as soon as he’d recognised Richard, and he hadn’t seen anything as he walked out of the library. Taking a deep breath, Greg stopped. The noise of the party was louder here, but they were still several metres from the end of the hall. Mycroft eased around beside Greg. His eyes were assessing, but not unkind. Somehow when he spoke, his words were not a surprise.

“Might I suggest we take our leave?”

Greg nodded, relieved Mycroft had suggested it. “Do you have a car?”

“I do,” Mycroft replied. “Let us collect our coats. The charity will survive without our presence, I am sure.”

“Right,” Greg said, grateful Mycroft was thinking.

_Kind. He’s being kind._

A few more minutes weaving through the crowd to collect their coats and Greg found himself in the back of Mycroft’s car. He didn’t catch where they were going, and it didn’t really matter. He slumped against the leather seat, trying to get his mind around what happened tonight.

Oddly, the first thing that occurred to him was _Mycroft didn’t come with me to watch the confrontation, or deal with his own date. He came as backup._ Greg blinked, trying to figure out why, but it was too complicated right now.

“Are you alright?”

“I should be more upset,” Greg said. His hands were resting in his lap. They felt heavy against his thighs.

_What a weird thing to notice._

“I believe ‘should’ is not a helpful mindset,” Mycroft replied finally. “Your suffering is not requisite.”

Greg shrugged. “Pretty sure finding your boyfriend like that’s supposed to be upsetting,” he said.

Mycroft was quiet for a long while. “Far be it for me to make assumptions about your relationship,” he said delicately, “but if a connection is not as deep as it might be, thus the suffering would be correspondingly brief.”

Greg took a few moments to consider the words.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “We weren’t all that well matched, I guess.”

“Please do not feel like you need explain,” Mycroft began.

“Jesus, I need a drink,” Greg muttered over the end of Mycroft’s words.

“In the interest of a swift departure I directed the driver to my home. You’d be welcome to come in,” Mycroft said. He hesitated before adding, “If you’d prefer not to be alone.”

“Thanks,” Greg said. He was glad Mycroft was making suggestions. It made it easier to just agree. It definitely helped that Mycroft was suggesting the things he wanted anyway.

_How does he know that?_

They fell into silence until the car pulled up. Greg followed Mycroft out of the car and into the building. It was just as he imagined it would be, and there was no surprise they ended up in a room best described as a library. It was generous, for a flat; there was room for a baby grand piano and a wall of bookshelves. Without waiting to be asked, Greg sank into one corner of the sofa, his body exhausted.

“Scotch?” Mycroft asked, making no comment as Greg slung his coat over the arm of the sofa.

“Please,” Greg replied. He watched as Mycroft poured two generous slugs, then paused to take both their coats and arranged them over the wing back chair. He accepted one glass, and Mycroft settled himself on the far end of the sofa.

Greg looked down at his hands, grateful Mycroft wasn’t trying to fill the silence. He opened his mouth without really knowing what he was going to say. This was the most surreal experience, and whatever he said wouldn’t feel quite real anyway.

“I was married, you know,” Greg said. “Thought it would be a bunch of kids, white picket fence or whatever that means. Football on the weekends. Growing old together. But the kids didn’t happen, so she found someone who already had some, and they made a bunch more. Made sense, I guess. Still hurt like hell.” He took a deep breath. “So I was on my own for a while. Hated it. Nobody to come home to. Not the big stuff, I didn’t care about the wedding and whatever. Just someone to tell about your day. Make you a cuppa sometimes. Notice if you’re home late. Someone to buy the flowers from the corner shop or share a KitKat with. Jesus. Such small things. And Richard was far from perfect, but he was something.”

He huffed a laugh. “You probably have no idea what I’m talking about.”

_Jesus. Get it together, Lestrade._

Greg swirled what was left of the Scotch in his glass. He couldn’t believe he’d told Mycroft all that. How pathetic could one man sounds, seriously? The silence was only broken by the clock on the mantle ticking, a slow steady measure of the seconds until Mycroft made a polite excuse and walked out.

Carefully, a throat cleared across the sofa, and to Greg’s astonishment, Mycroft spoke, voice and eyes lowered. His fingers were tight around the crystal tumbler.

“I was perhaps less than honest earlier,” he said quietly. “I chose to mislead you about the connection between myself and my date.” He frowned, tilting his glass. “He was not in fact the casual acquaintance I implied. Michael has accompanied me to a number of events over recent months.”

“So you were…dating him?” Greg asked.

“Our arrangement was not so formal,” Mycroft replied quietly.

“So,” Greg said, trying to understand, “not…exclusive?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “He took more licence with that than I. A fact of which I was quite aware.”

His words were blandly truthful but Greg was astonished to hear the pain in his voice.

“And you were okay with that?” Greg said. The Scotch prompted him to add, “Because you don’t sound like you are. Were. Are?” It didn’t matter too much, Mycroft would know what he meant.

“I had accepted it,” Mycroft replied, and the half-truth was familiar to Greg.

“Doesn’t mean you were okay with it,” Greg shot back.

“No,” Mycroft replied. “No, it doesn’t.”

He didn’t expand on that, and Greg didn’t push. In the silence he watched Mycroft’s fingers flex, wondering how he’d imagined his evening playing out. Probably not like this. They sat without speaking for a few moments until something else occurred to Greg.

“You don’t have to answer this,” Greg said, and he could see Mycroft stiffen as he spoke, “but I have to ask, if you weren’t okay with it, why did you keep…” he rolled one hand over.

Mycroft was still looking into his drink. He barely moved, until he lifted the glass and drained it. A sharp inhale as the liquor hit the back of his throat, and he spoke in a rush.

“I might ask the same of you.”

Greg frowned. “What?”

“I will give the same preface,” Mycroft said, “that you need not address my accusation. But I must ask you the same question.” He raised his eyes, and his gaze was arresting. “If you were not happy in your relationship, why did you not sever the connection?”

Greg felt like he’d been hit by a truck. He froze, the words hanging in the air.

“What?”

The word barely made it past his lips, carried on a shallow exhalation. He had no idea how to process what Mycroft was saying. He wasn’t unhappy. He was…comfortable. Fine. He was fine. With a deep breath he raised his eyes to meet Mycroft’s.

“What did you say?”

The grey eyes briefly flashed regret before Mycroft spoke, almost in defiance of it. “You said you should have been more upset.” He paused. “You said he was better than nothing.”

Greg blinked at him. How had Mycroft seen what he hadn’t even wanted to admit to himself? “I should have been,” he whispered in vain. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“I believe we already established that ‘should’ is not helpful,” Mycroft said. He sighed, the resignation clear in his eyes. “I apologise for my comment,” he said. “My car will take you home.”

Greg nodded absently, drinking down the rest of his Scotch. He looked into the empty glass, thinking. “I wouldn’t mind another drink, if you’re offering.”

Mycroft looked up from his phone, obviously surprised. He didn’t speak, but set the phone on the side table and rose to pick up the Scotch, splashing more into each glass. He was still standing at the bar when he spoke.

“Where did you meet Richard?”

Greg blinked. “He knew some people. I had to interview him late last year.”

Mycroft nodded, eyes watchful.

A rush of despondency rolled through Greg. “Jesus, I’m sorry. You’re right.” He rubbed one hand over his face. “Richard wasn’t…he was someone. Better than nothing. But not…”

“You deserve more than that,” Mycroft said, but Greg was too deep in his own thoughts to analyse it.

“He wasn’t all that nice, actually,” Greg said, a disbelieving laugh following the words he never thought he’d admit to himself, let alone speak aloud. Let alone in the presence of someone else. _Jesus._ “He sounded like he was being nice, but it was…there was another meaning, you know? I didn’t even realise it until maybe last week.” He drank without thinking, wincing as the burn reminded him it was bloody expensive Scotch he shouldn’t be tossing back with quite so much abandon.

Mycroft said nothing, returning to his spot on the sofa. The leather creaked as he settled.

“It was bloody lonely,” Greg whispered. “Being on my own. I didn’t want that anymore.”

“Was it better?” Mycroft asked. “With Richard?”

“No,” Greg whispered, mortified to hear how close to the surface his tears were. “But sometimes it was good.”

Mycroft nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I was willing to tolerate…things with Michael. The illusion of having somebody, even for an evening in public,” he shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished. “Cups of tea and sympathetic ear were never on offer.”

“Richard never did.”

Mycroft looked confused, so Greg continued. “Richard. He never did make me a cuppa. Or ask about my day, not really. And he only noticed I was home late if he wanted something.” It was actually a bit cathartic, getting it all out. Though the pain was a lot less than he would have expected.

Maybe Mycroft had a point.

_“…if a connection is not as deep as it might be, thus the suffering would be correspondingly brief.”_

Did he and Richard have a connection at all? Christ, he had no idea anymore.

Looking to the end of the sofa, Greg saw Mycroft sitting there, patiently watching him.

_He’s listened more in the last couple of hours than Richard ever did. And poured me a drink._

“Shit, sorry,” Greg said. “Getting lost in my own head here.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said. He hesitated before saying, voice full of apology, “I did direct the conversation away from the analysis of my relationship to yours, after all.”

Greg stared, remembering what Mycroft had said. “Jesus, you did.” Mycroft looked apprehensive. “You sneaky bastard.”

Mycroft visibly relaxed. “My apologies,” he murmured, and edge of amusement colouring his tone.

“Well go on, tell me something a bit pathetic about you and Michael,” Greg said. “Make me feel less like an idiot.”

Mycroft met his eyes, the calculation behind them evident. “I approached him,” Mycroft said, “after reconciling myself to the knowledge that the man I would otherwise choose was not available and was unlikely to be so.”

Greg raised one eyebrow. He hadn’t expected Mycroft to be so forthcoming. “Really?” he said. “You’ve got your eye on someone?”

“I did have,” Mycroft said. “As I said, I had reconciled myself to his inaccessibility.”

Greg frowned. He was paid to find inconsistency in what people said, and this jumped out at him. Mycroft was usually so careful with his words. Grey eyes watched him, and Greg had the peculiar idea he was being offered an opportunity to read something into the comments, if he wanted to.

_Did he misspeak on purpose?_

_I want to know._

“Which is it?” he said, committing to his chosen course. “You said you _had_ your eye on someone – past tense – but you also used the past tense to describe your belief that he was unobtainable.”

He let Mycroft sit with that for a moment. “I did,” Mycroft said finally.

“So?” Greg said, recklessness flashing in his belly. “What happened?” If Mycroft was going to manipulate the conversation, he was going to push. It lacked the subtlety of Mycroft’s efforts, but he hoped it would still be effective.

“I had resigned myself,” Mycroft said, “past tense.” He took a deep breath. “More recent information has rendered a long held belief to be…outdated.”

Greg took a few minutes to figure out what Mycroft was saying. “Something changed your mind,” he clarified. “Recently.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. He waited for the next question, answering but not offering.

“Christ, I’m too tired and tipsy for this,” Greg muttered. “Can you tell me? Please?”

Mycroft was silent for so long, Greg wondered if he would answer at all, but finally he drew a deep breath and met Greg’s eyes. It was a determined look. The look of someone not sure if he was doing the right thing, but who was going to do it anyway.

“I was speaking of you, Gregory,” he said simply. “I had assumed you were content, and I would no more disrupt your happiness with another than dismantle the moon.”

 _Jesus._ Greg pulled in a breath, his chest suddenly heavy with emotion.

“Me?” he managed. In the absent of rational thoughts, irrational came to the fore. _How drunk am I? Am I even conscious? Jesus, did someone lace my drink with something?_

“Yes,” Mycroft said, back straight as he made his admission. “Almost since we met, if we are to be frank.”

Greg swallowed. “I didn’t know,” he said. _How could I have known?_ “We’ve never really talked, have we? Not like tonight.”

“We have not,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “I might not have initiated such a personal conversation had events not transpired as they did.”

Greg nodded. “Me either,” he said quietly. He found himself choosing his words carefully. “You have been very kind.”

Something flared in Mycroft’s eyes, and his shaking fingers deposited his glass on the side table before he slid across the sofa, knees bumping Greg’s before he stopped.

“If I might be so forward,” Mycroft said, his voice shaking, “I would make you tea, and share your KitKats and listen to you speak of your day. I could not promise to be home every evening,” he breathed heavily for a second before continuing with reckless abandon, “but I can promise your wellbeing would be the primary concern of my life, if you would consider allowing me to make it so.”

Greg felt his jaw drop and he knew his mouth was hanging open at the most romantic lines he’d ever had directed at him in his life. When he didn’t speak Mycroft eased closer and Greg felt tentative fingers reached out to take his glass. With no strength in his fingers it slipped free, and Mycroft’s hand returned to settle over his. He looked down, swallowing hard.

“No mention of flowers?” he managed, looking up to meet Mycroft’s eyes. He tried to smile, to show Mycroft he understood and was accepting his offer.

Until Mycroft spoke, Greg couldn’t read anything but confusion and hope in the grey eyes locked on his face.

“If I recall,” Mycroft said, voice shaking as Greg was sure his own had, “you desired the buying rather than receiving.”

“And you’d really…I mean, if I was to buy flowers, that would be something you’d want?” Greg asked. “And all the rest? From…from me?”

He would have winced at the neediness of his words if the answer hadn’t been so damned important. How could Mycroft Holmes want _him_? It seemed impossible, yet right now he needed to hear the words. More than once, maybe, to convince him of their truth.

“More than anything,” Mycroft whispered.

“Well then,” Greg said. Carefully he turned his hand over to take Mycroft’s in his own. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything,” Mycroft said, and his palm was against Greg’s cheek and he was moving closer.

_He’s gentle._

The thought was brief before Mycroft’s lips settled over his. Greg had never felt as precious in all his life. Was this what it was like to be with someone who thought you were worth the effort? He could hardly remember. Perhaps it had been, with his wife, but he had let go of that a long time ago. Believed it was not for him, this tenderness and care that Mycroft was showing him.

“Stay,” Mycroft said quietly, their lips barely an inch apart. “Not for…but stay tonight. With me.” He exhaled, the puff of a laugh as he murmured, “I will make you tea in the morning.”

Greg couldn’t remember being asked anything so carefully, a vein of desperate hope running through the question that he would answer in the affirmative.

There was only one answer.

“Yes.”


	2. One year on...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens at next year's Ball.  
> Inspired by mariaWASD's comment on chapter 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sequel came from an unexpected place. MariaWASD left the following comment on chapter 1 and it stuck with me enough to write this sequel. I hope it is deeply satisfying to anyone who enjoys seeing nasty people get the comeuppence they deserve.
> 
> *Smirks* I’m now imagining a second chapter in which they attend another event and they’re the absolute best couple, everyone is taken by their energy and how they look together. And then they meet douche bag 1 & 2 who are just furiously jealous.

Greg stretched. “Are we really going to do this?” he asked, smiling across the bed.

“If you wish,” Mycroft replied, returning the smile. He set the tea tray on the duvet, sliding carefully under the sheets beside Greg. He was pouring tea, half-watching Greg as he did so, a smile dancing around his mouth. Milk and sugar, known without asking, and he passed the cup to Greg.

“Thank you,” Greg murmured.

“You thank me every time,” Mycroft replied, pouring and doctoring his own tea.

“I’m grateful every time,” Greg said, smiling. He did that a lot now; he couldn’t help it. Sappy as it sounded, his relationship with Mycroft made him deeply happy, in a way Richard never had. He wasn’t generally one for comparison but the contrast was so startling he couldn’t ignore it. Sometimes, in the very quiet hours when he knew Mycroft was asleep, Greg allowed himself to acknowledge his astonishment. _I can’t believe I have this._

“I’m only sorry I am unable to do so every day,” Mycroft said.

“Sorry you have a life,” Greg teased, grinning. “How terrible.”

Mycroft’s face grew serious, and he took the teacup from Greg’s hand, placing it with his own on the tea tray. Turning back he cupped Greg’s face in the way he sometimes did, grey eyes wide and sincere. It still thrilled Greg, that Mycroft worried he didn’t feel loved enough, or deserving enough, or whatever. They’d talked about some difficult topics and it was evident Mycroft had listened to every word.

“You are my life,” he said quietly, and in the year they had been together, that phrase had never failed to thrill Greg.

“Love you,” Greg murmured in response. Their kisses were always light and gentle in these moments. Mycroft had a way of making Greg feel so special, as though there were no words in the world to explain how valued he was. He closed his eyes, breathing in the love he felt from Mycroft.

_How did I think I was happy without this?_

“Our tea is getting cold,” Mycroft murmured.

“I can’t say I care,” Greg replied, when his lips were otherwise unoccupied. “You could reheat the pot later.”

“I can’t rewarm the pot,” Mycroft said. “Sacrilegious.”

“Then don’t,” Greg said, groaning when Mycroft pulled back. He sat up, accepting his cup for a second time. “Notice I’m not thanking you this time,” he said with a grin.

“So ungrateful,” Mycroft commented, his eyes warm.

They drank, the scent of the tea filling Greg’s mind. He would always associate this blend with Mycroft, and sitting in bed, and lazy soft mornings. This was the only time they ever drank it, these Sundays when two busy schedules aligned. It was actually more often than Greg would have imagined in the first few months until he’d mentioned it one morning. To his astonishment, Mycroft had flushed, eyes darting away in a classic marker of guilt.

“You arrange this?” Greg said, unable to believe Mycroft would go to such lengths. “Is that why we get to do it so often?”

“I do,” Mycroft replied. “I hope that is not-”

He was interrupted by Greg, discarding his teacup with one hand while reaching out to pull Mycroft into a bruising kiss with the other. Tea had splashed everywhere, but neither cared, not in that moment. It was a recognition for both of them. From then, eighty seven days after that charity ball according to Mycroft, they had both accepted the usual niceties simply would not apply to them. Greg moved in that weekend, even before all the security was sorted out; Mycroft’s voice was reckless when he declared he didn’t care, he wanted every possible second available together.

It was surprising how strongly Greg agreed.

“We really actually _are_ going to do this,” Greg said again, hardly believing it. “Why is it, again?”

“Revenge,” Mycroft replied with a smile. “Or possibly to show off.”

“Good point,” Greg said. “Maybe a bit of both?”

“Definitely both,” Mycroft said. “Are you happy with your new suit?”

“It’s a really good one,” Greg replied. “I know you want some proper details but it’s all shiny bits and fabric stuff.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Mycroft smiled.

It was still astonishing how Mycroft appeared to relish his lack of familiarity with the higher class world. He found Greg’s complete ignorance of tailoring amusing, patiently explaining the difference a sharkskin weave makes to the appearance of a fabric before Greg carefully explained that he was never going to retain the details.

“If you like it, I like it,” Greg told him. “So, shiny or not shiny, those are my choices?”

Mycroft had buried his face in his hands, and Greg enveloped him in an embrace. Jacob, their tailor, simply shook his head and chose the shiny lapels. Next time they came in Greg gave him a thumbs up, grinning while Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“And you’re sure they’ll both be there,” Greg said, slumping a little against his pillow and cupping the warm china a little closer.

“As sure as I can be,” Mycroft replied. He suppressed a smile and didn’t meet Greg’s eyes as he added, “They may have each received personal invitations. To ensure they are aware of exactly how eager the board is to have them present.”

“You didn’t,” Greg breathed, sitting up. When Mycroft finally looked over amusement lacing his gaze, Greg grinned. “Jesus, I love you.”

This time he held onto his teacup, free hand winding into the pillow as he kissed Mycroft. He felt Mycroft’s hand snake into her hair, tugging at the overlong strands.

“I should have gotten a haircut,” Greg groaned, as Mycroft kissed across his jaw.

“You do look handsome with a closer cut,” Mycroft whispered. His fingers tightened, nails scraping along Greg’s scalp. “But I can’t do this when it’s short.”

Greg groaned again, knowing Mycroft was doing it on purpose. “I know you like doing that,” he gasped.

“I know you like me doing it,” Mycroft returned. He kissed a little more before adding, “I can have a barber here this afternoon if you’d prefer a trim.”

Greg grinned again. “If that’s the best use you can think of for our day, I’m a bit disappointed,” he said.

“It’s up to you,” Mycroft replied. “I want you to feel confident tonight.” He pulled back, grinning at Greg’s damp knees. “You’ve spilled the last of your tea.”

“Unsurprising,” Greg replied breathlessly.

“You need to think about which would give you more confidence,” Mycroft told him, carefully moving the teacups and tray off the bed. “A new haircut, which would be clear to everyone,” he traced one finger over the back of Greg’s hand, “or a very, very satisfying day in bed with me, which will only be clear to those who care to look closely enough.”

“Well, that’s quite a choice,” Greg replied. “Maybe I could have both,” he suggested. “If the satisfying day in bed is simply one ‘very’ instead of two.”

“That is possible,” Mycroft replied. “If the haircut is important to you.”

Greg grinned, his mouth morphing into a wide O as Mycroft’s mouth descended slowly down his neck. “It is,” he managed.

Mycroft sat up, the abrupt withdrawal of touch disorientating. Greg watched him take his phone from the bed side table and tap at the screen for a moment.

“Appointment made,” he said, easing back over to Greg, “and alarm set.”

“Great decisions,” Greg murmured, sliding down the bed as Mycroft’s body covered his. In past relationships, it felt smothering. With Mycroft, he felt loved.

+++

Several very satisfactory hours later, Greg thanked the barber, closing the door after him before heading further into the flat to find Mycroft.

“What do you think?” he asked, leaning on the doorframe of Mycroft’s office. “It’s not too short?”

“You look very handsome,” Mycroft replied without glancing up from his laptop.

“You didn’t even look,” Greg protested, grinning.

“You always look handsome,” Mycroft said. He finished whatever he was doing and closed the computer. Standing up he crossed the room, stopping several paces in front of Greg. He allowed his eyes to wander over Greg, lingering on his hair for longer than absolutely necessary. “See? Very handsome.”

“Thank you,” Greg replied, stepping in until he was toe-to-toe with Mycroft. “What about from here?”

“Exceptionally handsome,” Mycroft murmured, leaning in to kiss Greg. “And more important than my opinion, are you happy with the result?”

“I am a confident human,” Greg replied. “Ready for tonight?”

“I am,” Mycroft said. “I may be looking forward to it more than is strictly decent.”

“Oh, me too,” Greg said. “Although I am actually kind of grateful for what happened at last year’s Ball.”

Mycroft didn’t even look surprised at what might have otherwise been a strange admission. Greg could see he understood completely.

_If that hadn’t happened, we might never have found each other._

“Come on,” Greg said, “Let’s get dressed.”

Mycroft smiled, taking Greg’s hand so they could walk upstairs together.

+++

It was weird, being in this kind of space again. After the charity even the previous year, Greg had avoided such gatherings, feeling like a heel for sending Mycroft on his own, embarrassingly fearful of running into either Richard or Michael or (God forbid) both. He was conscious Mycroft had been working up to this for a while, and though Greg had agreed to come, he was somewhat regretting the decision now that they were actually here. He took care not to squeeze his champagne flute too tightly, though the throng of people around him was uncomfortably fluid. The fact everyone was dressed almost the same heightened his senses.

_Any of these men could be…_

“You’re still sure?” Mycroft murmured, pretending to brush something off Greg’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Greg replied. “You’re sure you like the suit?”

Greg knew he was fishing, and he knew Mycroft could read it as clearly as anything. Right now he needed the reassurance and experience was slowly teaching him he could ask for it from Mycroft without fear of dismissal or ridicule.

Sure enough, Mycroft smiled into his eyes. “It’s perfect,” he replied.

“Even the shiny bits?”

“Especially the shiny bits,” Mycroft replied. He glanced at Greg’s empty glass. “Another drink?”

“Maybe some water,” Greg said. Much as he wanted another drink, it was fairly early and he wanted to make sure he made it through the evening with his wits about him.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. He took the glass, making sure his fingers lingered over Greg’s for a second. As he walked away the crowd parted and came together, swallowing him up. Greg’s smile was still on his face when he heard his name.

“Greg, right?”

Turning at his name, Greg mentally berated himself. He should have gone with Mycroft, and now he was standing here with…someone he didn’t quite recognise.

“Yes,” he said, offering his hand and hoping like hell the other man would introduce himself.

“Jack,” the blond offered. “I work with Richard.”

“Right,” Greg replied, remembering. “We met a few times.” Exchanging small talk with this man was hardly something he’d chose to do, but with Mycroft still gone, there was little choice. Greg remembered not liking Jack, but he couldn’t bring himself to be outright rude, either.

“How’s things?” Jack asked. “I was sorry to hear about you and Richard.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “These things happen.”

“But you’ve recovered, I see, so no harm done,” Jack said with the broad insincere smile Greg now remembered. His eyes were darting around, clocking people left and right, and Greg wondered why Jack had approached him in the first place.

_Must want something._

“Nope,” Greg said, not chasing the reason Richard had given for their break up. He probably didn’t want to hear, anyway. “Back to the grind.”

“Right, you’re a copper, aren’t you?” Jack said, with the over bright tone of someone who had not forgotten the thing they were just now pretending to remember.

_Ah. That’s the key, then._

“Yep,” Greg replied, more at ease now he knew the game. “Still doing alright at McMillan and Stoke?”

“Getting by,” Jack said modestly. He glanced around again and leaned it, lowering his voice as much as he could in the noisy ballroom. He clearly wanted to ask Greg something confidential, though Greg couldn’t quite believe he was trying to do it here, of all places.

“Listen, you wouldn’t know anyone in Vice, would you? There was a misunderstanding last week with this girl I’ve been seeing. She slipped something in my drink and put the rest in my pocket.” He gave Greg a conspiratorial grin. “The sex was so good we couldn’t wait, if you know what I mean, so we stopped on the way home. Local cop did us for sex in a public toilet and found the pills when he booked us.”

Greg blinked. “And you’re asking…what?”

“Come on, you know how it is, hot piece of arse you can’t wait to get home.” Jack winked. “Surely you could put in a good word for me? This won’t look good at my next performance review.”

“How old _are_ you?” Greg couldn’t help asking.

“What?” Jack asked.

“How old are you?” Greg repeated. “Because it’s been a bloody long time since I couldn’t wait to get home so badly I even considered stopping for a shag in a _public toilet_.”

Jack’s face registered his shock before a sneer slid over his face. “Well I guess that’s your loss, isn’t it?”

There were few times in Greg’s life things were timed as perfectly as he would like, but as he opened his mouth to answer, Mycroft appeared by his side, glass of iced water in his hand.

“I wouldn’t say so, no,” Greg replied, smiling at Mycroft. “Please allow me to introduce my partner, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is Jack. He’s just asked me to get him off a charge of sex in a public toilet and some drugs charges.”

“Fascinating,” Mycroft replied in a tone that implied it absolutely was not.

“I suspect if you want to stop being charged with drug related offenses you find something else fuel your increasingly desperate search for meaning,” Greg told Jack. “You might manage that while you’re in prison. I’m fairly sure there’s a mandatory custodial sentence for shagging in a public loo. And since this clearly isn’t your first go around with drugs, I’m betting you already have a possession charge or two hanging around waiting to bump up that latest penalty. Quite honestly, I doubt your next performance review’s going to be the biggest problem in your tiny universe, Jack.”

By the time Greg finished, Jack’s face was the unattractive mottle red of a furious blond. Without another word he turned, storming off into the crowd.

“A friend of Richard’s?” Mycroft asked mildly.

“Colleague, I think,” Greg replied, his heart thumping hard. “I wasn’t paying that much attention.”

“You noticed his drug use,” Mycroft replied. “Impressive deductions, Detective Inspector.”

“Professional habit,” Greg told him. “They always think they can hide it.”

Mycroft raised his champagne flute and Greg touched it with his own, smiling into Mycroft’s eyes. The first incursion, and it had been fine. Perhaps this evening wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Shall we put our plan into action?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes,” Greg replied. He had a nagging thought that Jack might find Richard and tell him Greg was here; given whatever Richard had told everyone about Greg, there was a good chance they’d meet later. Which was the point, true, but it still made Greg nervous.

“Let’s start with Ruth Vanderberg,” Mycroft said. “She’s the Chair of the Board of Directors.”

“Okay,” Greg replied. Mycroft had done his homework for tonight, and it was his job to make sure they spoke to the right people. Greg just had to get the conversation going in the right direction, and hopefully things would happen as Mycroft predicted.

Ruth Vanderberg was lovely, quick witted and clearly experienced at putting slightly-out-of-their-depth coppers at ease, though there was an awkward moment early on when she recognised Greg’s name.

“Gregory Lestrade?” she said, shaking his hand. She looked him up and down. “You’re looking very well.”

“I’m sorry, have we met before?” Greg asked, confused.

“No,” Ruth replied. “I mean in light of your medical concerns.”

“Ah,” Greg said, exchanging a glance with Mycroft, who looked puzzled. “I believe you heard something to that effect from Richard?”

“Yes,” Ruth replied. “Is that not the case?”

“No,” Greg said, amazed the conversation had led them here so quickly. “Richard and I were dating, but I broke it off when I found him in a,” he cleared his throat dramatically, “compromising position with another man at last year’s ball.”

“This ball?” Ruth said, raising her eyebrows. “Goodness me, how inappropriate!”

“Yes, Mycroft and I were very upset by it,” Greg said. “We were considering not coming back, weren’t we?”

Mycroft nodded. “It’s such an important cause, we couldn’t let one person’s behaviour prevent us from returning.”

“Well, that’s very considerate,” Ruth replied. “Such a terrible decision on Richard’s part, of course, and how it might reflect on our cause is outrageous!”

Greg nodded, privately amused that Ruth seemed to be more upset that Richard had defile the ball than his treatment of Greg. Mycroft had been correct in that respect.

“So what exactly did you hear about my health?” Greg asked. “I’m quite curious to know.”

He’d phrased it just right, the way Mycroft had suggested. _Make it sound like gossip._

“Well,” Ruth said, her eyes lighting up, “Richard said you’d been diagnosed with a rare brain tumour and had to leave immediately for Austria. Some kind of radical new treatment.”

“Really,” Greg replied. He leaned in, allowing his eyes to sparkle as he murmured, “And did he say why he didn’t go too?”

“Something about work,” Ruth replied. “He had a meeting with a client, I believe.”

Greg nodded. “Well, as you can see I’m fine,” he replied. “Not a brain tumour in sight.”

“I’m so pleased to hear it,” Ruth said. They exchanged a few more pleasantries until she glanced over Mycroft’s shoulder and waved. She patted Gregory’s hand. “I’m just going to say hello to Alexander Marsham, he’s made such a contribution this year.”

They made their farewells, and Mycroft leaned close to murmur to Greg, “Watch…there.”

Despite her claim, Ruth paused at no less than three conversations on her way over to Alexander Marsham. At each she greeted the group, but leaned to whisper into one or two people’s ear. The recipient of whatever she said looked somewhere between scandalised and thrilled.

“Holy shit,” Greg breathed. “What is she doing?”

“Spreading gossip,” Mycroft replied. “You’d be surprised how many people disapprove not of same sex relationships but of cheating on your partner.”

“Especially at The Ball?” Greg asked.

“Especially at The Ball,” Mycroft replied. “I wonder how successful Richard will be at bringing in clients once the news spreads of his decision making history.”

Greg grinned. “Let’s find some more people,” he said.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied.

The next conversation was similar, and the one after that; Greg could see their eyes lighting up as he subtly offered gossip like a reluctant sommelier brings out the best bottle in the house. By the time the third conversation was over, Greg was approached by a woman who ostensibly recognised Mycroft, but steered the conversation skilfully to Greg.

“I’m sure we’ve met somewhere,” she said. “Were you here last year?”

“Yes,” Greg replied. “With my ex-partner, Richard James.”

“Oh, you’re that Gregory!” she exclaimed. Like clockwork, she looked him up and down. “You look so _well!_ ”

The conversation was predictable from there, and Greg found himself accosted several times before Mycroft managed to find them a quiet corner. Each and every person was outraged, of course, and they all reassured both Greg and Mycroft that Richard’s behaviour was not representative of the values they held dear. It was all very amusing, and Greg found himself grinning at how easily they’d managed to manipulate almost the entire Board of Directors.

“How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked.

“Is it always like this?” Greg asked with a grin. “When your plan works and they go off and do what you predicted?”

“Sometimes,” Mycroft allowed. When Greg looked at him in disbelief, he added, “Sometimes it’s better.”

Greg laughed, the slightly guilty look on Mycroft’s face making his heart sing. “I feel a bit guilty, actually,” he said. “Going out of our way to make Richard look bad.”

“You are doing nothing but attending a party and telling the truth,” Mycroft replied. “Any deception or ill-mannered behaviour is Richard’s and Richard’s alone.”

“Don’t forget Michael,” Greg reminded him. “Are you sure you don’t want to say anything?”

“I do not,” Mycroft replied. “He may or may not have known Richard was in a relationship at the time, and as I told you, our arrangement was hardly exclusive.” He shrugged, fond eyes on Greg. “I am content to enjoy what I have now.”

“Me too,” Greg replied. He grinned at Mycroft, the sound around them morphing into white noise for a few seconds as all his awareness swirled around Mycroft.

“So speaking of enjoying,” Mycroft said, “shall we make ourselves more prominent? Surely the gossip will have made it to Richard by now, and I doubt he’ll miss the opportunity to speak with you about it.”

Greg nodded, an unexpected shot of nerves through him. This was the part that relied more on his ability to predict and respond to Richard, and it was more confronting than pretending to spread gossip amongst rich socialites. With a deep breath, he wound his fingers through Mycroft’s and downed the rest of his champagne. Only his second of the night, so he was clear headed enough for now.

“Ready?” Mycroft asked, straightening Greg’s bowtie.

“Ready,” Greg told him.

They moved back into the party, nodding and greeting people as they moved, but not stopping to chat. The dance floor was now being used for its purpose; Greg wondered if Mycroft was planning for them to dance. They’d agreed this part would be more fluid, depending on how Richard approached them and what he said. Given how well he thought he’d managed the first step – getting the gossip out there – Greg hoped he could manage this, too. Having Mycroft there made him feel better. Mycroft could read him well, and Greg trusted him to step in should it be required.

“Dancing?” Greg asked, when Mycroft stopped near the edge of the dancefloor.

“Not quite yet,” Mycroft replied. “I see Richard. He and Jack are on their way over.” Greg felt Mycroft stiffen. “It appears Michael is also present.” The tension was clear in Mycroft’s voice.

“He doesn’t want to be outnumbered,” Greg replied, pretending to smile at someone in the other direction. “Just a schoolyard bully with his backup.” He turned to Mycroft, ducking until he caught the grey eyes with his own. “Five pounds says they stand behind him like Crabbe and Goyle.”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched despite himself. “You know I hate that I understand that reference, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Greg said, and when someone behind him said his name, the smile was still on his face.

_Right._

Turning around, Greg kept the smile, though he turned it down a few notches. “Richard. I wondered if our paths would cross.”

“Greg,” Richard said shortly. He looked tired, Greg thought with a twist of satisfaction, and thoroughly pissed off. And as they sized each other up, Greg suddenly realised he no longer cared what Richard thought about him, or whether he spread rumours in a social circle in which Greg didn’t even move. He was so far removed from Greg’s life now.

“Was there something?” Greg asked when Richard didn’t speak. As he’d predicted, Michael and Jack stood behind Richard like surly fifth formers. He knew Mycroft noticed but didn’t bother glancing over. They would talk about it later.

Greg could see Richard’s eyes flicking around, noting the people around them. He wouldn’t start an argument here; if Richard was worried about the gossip he’d heard, he would be in damage control mode, no matter how angry he felt. He ran his tongue across his teeth, a personal habit Greg privately detested.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Richard said. “Not really your scene, is it?”

“No,” Greg replied. “I’m a plus one tonight.” He turned a little to Mycroft. “Richard, have you met Mycroft Holmes?”

“Holmes?” Richard repeated, turning to look at Mycroft. “As in Violet Holmes?”

“My mother,” Mycroft replied. “She instilled quite a sense of duty.” He smiled thinly. “Not to mention an appreciation of shall we say…social niceties.”

“Really,” Richard said. Greg knew he could sense there was some kind of subtext, but he wasn’t quite smart enough to grasp it. His tone was wary, though, and Greg knew he was waiting to see what else Mycroft might say.

“Well, if there wasn’t anything else,” Greg said, and made to walk away.

“Wait,” Richard said, reaching out but holding back from actually touching Greg.

“Yes?” Greg asked, meeting Richard’s eyes.

“You need to tell…people,” Richard replied, “that you’re…” he stopped, helpless.

“I don’t understand,” Greg said. “You want me to lie?”

Richard ground his teeth. “I want you to tell people you were mistaken,” he said, lowering his voice. “This is my reputation, Greg!”

“Yes,” Greg replied. “It is your reputation, Richard. And your lies. And your choice to ditch me while you and Michael headed for the library last year.” He stepped in, the words coming from a place he thought was tucked away and inaccessible. “And your attitude to my lack of university education, and your rudeness to waiters, and your distain for any work you think is beneath you.” Greg shrugged and stepped back. “And unless you’re suggesting I should lie to people about having cancer, which is quite frankly the most tactless thing I can think of doing, I can’t see a single other thing we might have to talk about.”

Greg drew a deep breath, feeling Mycroft’s fingers tighten on his own as he waited for all his words to register with Richard.

“So you’re just going to let this ruin my career?” Richard hissed, glancing around to check he wasn’t being overheard.

“I’m going to let you reap the benefits of your actions,” Greg replied with a calmness he couldn’t have imagined possessing before right now. He could see Richard’s face grow mutinous. “And just so we’re clear, if you even consider anything that might be considered revenge, Mycroft is quite able to bring your entire life down around your ears.”

Richard glanced at Mycroft, and Greg couldn’t resist glancing across. He caught the end of another smile from Mycroft, even less sincere than the first and somehow speaking volumes of discomfort and inconvenience.

“Fine,” Richard snarled.

“Have a nice life, Richard,” Greg said.

He wasn’t being sarcastic; if Richard actually deserved a nice life, Greg wouldn’t begrudge him that. The likelihood of that seemed quite low, but Greg didn’t really care. Jack and Michael followed Richard as he stormed off, and Greg felt a huge weight lift off his chest. He’d just turned to speak to Mycroft again when a hand landed on his arm.

“Ruth,” he said with a smile. “Were you hoping for a dance?”

“Oh my, no,” she said with a small laugh. “I saw Richard speaking with you and I wanted to assure you that he will no longer be welcome at this Ball.” She leaned in. “To be honest there are a number of Board members for several charities here tonight and they were frankly horrified at his conduct. To desecrate our Ball with such behaviour, and of course the way he treated you,” she shook her head, tut-tutting. “I believe he will find the invitations fairly thin on the ground in the future.”

“Ah,” Greg replied. He wasn’t entirely upset, but neither did he want to dwell on the consequences of Richard’s choices – and to some extent, his own.

“Yes, Mara Stevenson was very unhappy to hear of it,” Ruth continued.

“Stevenson?” Greg repeated.

“Yes, her husband is Richard’s mentor at McMillan and Stoke. Needless to say, he’ll be spoken to. In their industry your reputation is so important. People want to feel they trust your judgement,” Ruth told Greg, as though he might not know.

“Of course,” Greg replied.

“To be honest, I think you’re well shot of him,” Ruth said out of the corner of her mouth.

The phrase was so unexpected that Greg felt himself chuckle. “Thank you,” he replied. Glancing at Mycroft he told her, “I feel I’ve upgraded, if I might be so bold as to say so.”

“Of course you have,” Ruth said, beaming at them both. “Don’t forget to remember us at Christmas, won’t you?”

“We will,” Greg replied.

Ruth bustled off, and Greg turned to Mycroft. “Exactly how much money do you give this charity?” he said.

“Enough that they treat me like that,” Mycroft replied. “Although to be fair, it is not my money, but the legacy of my mother that she is protecting.”

“Right,” Greg said with a grin. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”

“Home?” Mycroft asked.

“Home,” Greg agreed.

In the back of the car he scooted over to the middle seat, resting his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. The evening had gone largely as planned, and though he was still mildly uncomfortable with the outcome, Greg was happy he could put it all behind him.

“I’ll put low level surveillance on Richard for a while,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg turned his face up, watching the streetlights pulse past over Mycroft’s face. “And Jack and Michael, please.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft said. He was still looking out the window, and when he leaned forward, Greg almost fell. “Stop here, please,” he said to the driver. “I won’t be a moment,” he told Greg.

True to his word, Mycroft was back in under a minute. As the car moved back into traffic, Greg frowned. He couldn’t see what Mycroft had bought.

“What did you need?” he asked.

With a smile, Mycroft reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out something small, the red foil glinting in the streetlight as he peeled it open. The rich smell of chocolate filled the car.

_A Kitkat._

Still smiling, Mycroft broke the chocolate bar down the middle, offering half to Greg. “Tell me about your day,” he whispered.

Greg kissed him.


End file.
